


someone else's heart, pumping someone else's blood

by newamsterdam



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Drama, Eventual Romance, M/M, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-16 02:25:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: Watari smiles sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his head. “Well, I guess I’ve always been thinking of those old stories, you know? About beautiful monsters with human faces.”Hanamaki and Matsukawa, who’ve seen about as many wraiths as Oikawa and Iwaizumi, chuckle at that.“Nope,” Hanamaki says, twirling a knife between his fingers. “They’re pretty much all that ugly and faceless.” He doesn’t add that that makes their job easier.“Yeah,” Iwaizumi says, “the only monster with a human face around here is this one.” He jerks a thumb in Oikawa’s direction.Instead of squawking with indignation, Oikawa merely batts his lashes. “Iwa-chan, are you calling me beautiful?”Aoba Johsai trains the best hunters in the region, but Oikawa's always been hungry for something more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sound_Of_Inspiration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sound_Of_Inspiration/gifts).



> written for the 2017 [iwaoi exhange](http://iwaoiexchange.tumblr.com/), for [sound-of-inspiration](http://sound-of-inspiration.tumblr.com/)! i really hope you enjoy this; i saw your prompt for a vampire/hunter story and got a bit carried away. i'm going to try and have the bulk of it posted within the gifting period, but please enjoy this first chapter for now.
> 
> many thanks to the friends who read this over for me & offered valuable thoughts and suggestions!

The sky is dyed a deep violet, the branches of the trees extending towards it like gnarled fingers. Though spread far apart here, near the rolling hills, the woods quickly grow thicker, a knot of dark wood and shadow. The common wisdom is that humans are not meant to go far into these trees. But tonight, Oikawa and his friends are going to flout that wisdom, heading for the woods deliberately. 

“You sure those kids are ready for this?” Iwaizumi asks. A heavy claymore sword is strapped across his back, and he’s wearing the light leather armor that hunters favor for short raids. He wears bracers on his forearms, the silver laurel wreath of Aoba Johsai emblazoned on his tunic.

Oikawa, walking in-step with him, rolls his eyes. “They aren’t kids, Iwa-chan. They’re only a year younger than us.” He doesn’t favor large swords like Iwaizumi— he’d say it’s because he’s not overcompensating quite as much— and instead clutches a long, thin staff in one hand. In addition to the light armor, he wears a turquoise band around one arm, a sign marking him the captain of this particular squad. 

“ _You_ ’re definitely a kid,” Iwaizumi retorts, tossing another glance behind him. Yahaba and Watari are walking with Matsukawa and Hanamaki, the other members of Oikawa’s squad. All of them are armed, but Iwaizumi still shifts nervously as six pairs of feet crunch against the fallen leaves.

Oikawa frowns at him, reaching out to tap him twice on the forehead. “Stop scowling so much,” he chides, voice lilting like a song. “Your face is going to get stuck with those wrinkles, and then there’ll be no hope for you at all.” 

Iwaizumi gives him an impatient look. “I don’t have wrinkles, you ass.”

Oikawa lets his fingers drift from Iwaizumi’s forehead to his cheek, where there’s a white scar that looks almost like a leaf in shape. Oikawa remembers their first excursion with their upperclassmen, and the way Iwaizumi’s face had been covered in blood when a wraith had ripped the skin of his face. He shudders now at the memory. 

“You’ve got scars, too,” is all Iwaizumi says. He lets Oikawa’s fingers linger a moment longer before he tilts his head away from the touch. 

It’s true enough, but Oikawa’s scars aren’t visible when he’s decked out for a hunt. He supposes there are some scars that are never visible, too. But Iwaizumi’s always been a very straightforward person, and it only makes sense that he’d wear the trophies of his hunts on his face, as plainly as he does his emotions. 

“Oi, keep up,” Iwaizumi calls behind him. “We are not going to be the squad that loses someone in the woods.” 

“Yes, Iwaizumi-senpai,” two voices respond. Watari is the smaller of the two, and wears a circular silver shield at his back. Yahaba, whose pale hair looks almost lavender in the dying light, has an elegantly-carved bow and a quiver of arrows. 

“See, look how well-trained they are,” Oikawa comments. “We’re all going to be just fine, aren’t we?” 

Hanamaki shakes his head, but says ruefully, “Whatever you say, Captain.”

“Please guide us to another victory,” Matsukawa continues flatly. He holds a long spear in his hand, tipped in gleaming silver. He keeps it pointed skyward, its deadly point at odds with the tired, lazy look in Matsukawa’s dark eyes. 

“You’re supposed to be taking this seriously,” Oikawa scolds them, without much heat. He knows that Hanamaki and Matsukawa likely feel as much apprehension as Iwaizumi. It’s one thing for the four of them, well-practiced, to go out to the woods on their own. They can practically predict each other’s heartbeats at this point, and know exactly when to drop out of their casual taunts and into the hyperaware silence this job requires. But although they’ve worked together in controlled settings before, Watari and Yahaba are a new element. And they’re going to have to learn exactly the kind of strength it takes to be hunters. 

“They know how serious it is,” Matsukawa says helpfully. “After all, only the two of them made it this far.”

“I thought for sure that other one would be here, too,” Hanamaki puts in. “What was his name, Kyou-something?”

“Ah,” Oikawa says with a fluttery laugh. “Kyouken-chan.” 

“Kyoutani-kun,” Yahaba says stiffly, “hasn’t logged enough hours to graduate from training.” 

“Meanwhile, Yahaba came close to beating your record, Oikawa-senpai.” Watari adds.

“Beating his record would not be a good thing,” Iwaizumi growls. “That much training in three years would probably kill a normal person.” 

“Are you saying I’m not a normal person?” Oikawa demands. 

Iwaizumi gives him that same flat, unimpressed look. “Everyone knows you aren’t.”

Oikawa holds a hand to his heart, feigning more indignation that he really feels. He sniffs pointedly, strutting ahead of Iwaizumi. “Don’t be jealous because I’ve killed more wraiths than you have, Iwa-chan. It’s very unbecoming.” 

Before Iwaizumi can retort, they all stop short. They’re well into the woods, now, and can’t continue on in the wide rows they’ve been walking in. Well-trained, they turn to Oikawa for instruction.

“Iwa-chan, you take the lead,” Oikawa says, “And Makki, you stay with him. Watacchi, Yahaba, stay in the middle. Mattsun and I will bring up the rear.” 

They all nod, and quickly fall into position. Iwaizumi shifts one hand to the hilt of his sword, ready to swing it off his back should he need to. Yahaba and Watari are safe enough between Hanamaki and Matsukawa, which leaves Oikawa the time and luxury to examine their surroundings with his keen, penetrating gaze. 

Even though the sun has only just set, it’s hard to make out much of anything amongst the trees. Autumn is only just turning to winter, so there’s been no snowfall yet. The entire wood is full of shadows, and the rustling of small animals making their way back to burrows and dens. 

Oikawa tries every time, to notice the wraiths before they strike. He’s sure that one of these days, he’ll be able to see which direction they’re coming from, and then—

“Incoming!” Iwaizumi cries out, just as a chilling breeze passes over them. He pulls his sword and swing it in a wide arc, pushing back what looks to be a dark shadow. But Oikawa knows better, and so do the rest of them. Hanamaki is already advancing behind Iwaizumi, pulling throwing knives from his belt and holding them poised. 

“Wait!” Oikawa calls out, before Hanamaki can throw one of the knives. “Yahaba, you do it. Wait for a clean shot, then—”

The shadow in front of Iwaizumi lets out an unearthly wail, propelling itself into the air. Its shape is mostly indistinct, but long limbs extend from it, and there’s a dark knob like a head rising from the center of its body. If someone drew a human figure in charcoal and then smudged it thoroughly, they’d depict a wraith somewhat accurately. 

Yahaba is hurrying to obey Oikawa’s instructions, knocking an arrow and taking aim with shaky hands. He’s a good shot, normally, but anyone’s first encounter with a wraith would throw them off. The shrieking noises coming from the creature can’t be helping. Even Oikawa still shudders when he hears them. Now, Yahaba points his arrow towards the wraith, biting down on his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood.

“Shit,” Oikawa hisses, the moment he realizes. 

The wraith cries out, then dives in the air, straight for Yahaba. Before it can reach him, Watari runs in front of his friend, holding his shield out with two hands. The wraith extends its arms, but instead of grabbing Yahaba its nails scrape against the silver of Watari’s shield. It scrambles against the metal, hissing. 

Wraiths are effectively blind, and navigate the world by seeking the iron in blood. Other metals, particularly silver, can confuse them. 

“Yahaba!” Oikawa yells. “Now!”

Iwaizumi and Hanamaki have turned around, closing the small circle that Matsukawa and Oikawa have formed around the wraith, Watari and Yahaba. But Oikawa holds up a hand, keeping the other three from advancing. He knows that they can kill wraiths, and that’s not what they’re out here to prove. 

Yahaba is still shaky, but seeing Watari holding the wraith back seems to strengthen his resolve. He positions his arrow again, and Oikawa sees him clench his eyes shut for a moment before he lets the arrow fly. It travels a short distance through the air, then pierces the wraith through its skull. 

The wraith lets out another shrill cry, but the force of the impact sends it against the nearest tree, pinned down. It struggles for a moment, wheezing in agony, and then goes still. A moment later, the wraith crumbles into dark dust. 

“Is it… dead?” Yahaba asks, uncharacteristically uncertain. 

Oikawa steps forward, pressing a firm hand down on Yahaba’s shoulder. “As much as it was alive, yes. It’s dead.” 

Oikawa steps around Yahaba to help Watari to his feet, then continues to the tree and yanks Yahaba’s arrow out of the bark. The dark dust has blown away in the wind, leaving no evidence of the wraith. Oikawa brushes his gloved fingers against the arrowhead, then turns back to extend the shaft to Yahaba.

“You’ll want to keep that,” he says with a dazzling smile, “as the trophy of your first hunt.” 

Yahaba still looks a little pale, but as he takes the arrow back from Oikawa his features split into a grin. “I… I did it.”

“You did!” Watari says, next to him. He extends a hand, and Yahaba smacks his own against it in a high-five. Hanamaki, Matsukawa and Iwaizumi step forward to offer their congratulations. 

As they head back through the woods, Watari and Yahaba talk animatedly to one another. Oikawa watches from behind them, smiling indulgently and remembering his own first hunt— he and Iwaizumi had each managed to kill a wraith, but double kills like that are rare. They’re placed in squads for a reason; one on one or outnumbered, a single human wouldn’t stand a chance against a wraith. And when more than one arrives, it’s a sure sign that others will soon follow en masse. Right now, it’s smartest for them to leave the forest before another wraith, or more, can find them. 

It’s terribly inefficient, running into the forest to kill a single wraith and then running away again. But there’s nothing more they can do without risking their own lives. 

“I guess I’ve seen them for training,” Watari is saying, “but I still didn’t expect the wraith to look like that.” 

“What else would it have looked like?” Yahaba asks. 

Watari smiles sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his head. “Well, I guess I’ve always been thinking of those old stories, you know? About beautiful monsters with human faces.” 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa, who’ve seen about as many wraiths as Oikawa and Iwaizumi, chuckle at that. 

“Nope,” Hanamaki says, twirling a knife between his fingers. “They’re pretty much all that ugly and faceless.” He doesn’t add that that makes their job easier. 

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi says, “the only monster with a human face around here is this one.” He jerks a thumb in Oikawa’s direction.

Instead of squawking with indignation, Oikawa merely batts his lashes. “Iwa-chan, are you calling me beautiful?” 

Iwaizumi elbows him in the chest for his trouble. Even through his armor, it hurts. 

Soon enough, they see the white towers of Aoba Johsai’s training school rising up towards the sky, shining and luminous in the moonlight. Oikawa smiles to himself, turning to nod approvingly at his team.

“A clean kill, and we’ve all made it home safe,” he says. “Good work, everyone.” 

—

Being a squad captain comes with certain perks, including a single room in the school’s dormitory. The room isn’t big, but Oikawa has his own bed and desk and the ability to keep the lights on far into the night without bothering a roommate. 

Still, he waits a few hours after he’d seen the others off to their own rooms before he sits down at his desk to examine his prize. Carefully peeling off his gloves, he adjusted the free-standing magnifying glass over the fabric. There, dark against the white fabric, is the barest specs of the sooty remains of the wraith that Yahaba had killed. Oikawa had stroked his fingers along the arrowhead, capturing what he could of the dissipating dust. 

“There you are,” Oikawa says with a wicked grin, looking through the magnifying glass. Just looking at the dust doesn’t tell him much, but obtaining the sample was his aim. Oikawa opens his desk drawer to root around for something, but then he’s interrupted by a fierce pounding at his door. 

“Are you still awake?” Iwaizumi’s voice calls. “It’s three in the morning, go the fuck to sleep, Oikawa!” 

“Yes, Mom,” Oikawa calls back, voice bitingly teasing. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, too?” 

“I’m not leaving until I see your light go off,” Iwaizumi says threateningly. 

Oikawa sighs and turns away from the sample he’d obtained. “Alright, alright.” 

—

For all of Oikawa’s confidence, he’s still technically a student at Aoba Johsai. At the end of this year, he, Iwaizumi and the rest of their year will take their exams and be judged by the High Council. And if they succeed, they’ll graduate to fully-fledged hunters. Oikawa’s been working towards that moment for his entire life, it seems like, and now that it’s only a few months away his blood is ignited by the thought. 

“Oi,” Iwaizumi says at the end of the day’s classes, nudging him as Oikawa struggles not to nod off, “Did you get _any_ sleep last night?” 

“Of course,” Oikawa says around a yawn. 

They head out into the hallway, packed with students. Men and women and those who prefer neither title mill about, wearing stark white uniforms and turquoise ties. Instead of silver weapons, their blazers are dotted with silver buttons. They carry books and bags, and probably wouldn’t be out of place in the town square of any normal village. 

Across the hall, Oikawa spots Yahaba and Watari holding court. The other students of their year stand around them, looking up admiringly as Yahaba pantomimes knocking an arrow and Watari keeps up chattering commentary. 

“Isn’t that cute?” Oikawa turns to ask Iwaizumi. 

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “Don’t be patronizing,” he says. “You went on and on about our first hunt, remember?” 

“People kept asking me!” Oikawa insists. 

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “So you kept saying.”

As they head towards the dining hall to grab dinner, Oikawa spots another student skulking at the outskirts of Yahaba’s circle of friends. He isn’t wearing Aoba Johsai’s regulation blazer, and the sleeves of his button-down shirt are rolled up to his elbows. Oikawa supposes they should all be glad that he deigned to wear a tie, today. 

Oikawa opens his mouth to call out to the other student, but Iwaizumi gets there first.

“Oi, Kyoutani,” he says, voice stern and angry. “You were supposed to be on that hunt with us, last night.” 

Kyoutani—wiry in body and surly in expression—looks up at Iwaizumi and looks guilty for only a moment. “Not wasting my time with all that training,” he mutters. 

Iwaizumi growls, and brings his hand down on top of Kyoutani’s head. “Don’t give me that crap. You’re wasting everyone’s time if you just stick around here and don’t do things properly. I better see you at training, tonight.”

Still shaking his head, Iwaizumi stomps towards the dining hall. Seeing that his work has been done for him, Oikawa winks at Kyoutani and then follows behind Iwaizumi. 

—

He has to wait through dinner and evening training before he can get back to his room. They aren’t scheduled for a forest hunt tonight— the school doesn’t want a bunch of sleep-deprived students going in half-cocked and ending up dead— and so Oikawa has the night to himself. Usually, he’ll insist on training into the night, or will hole up in the library doing research. The only person who really notices how quickly Oikawa decides to go to bed is Iwaizumi, who throws him a skeptical look after Oikawa rushes through his shower and out of the locker room. 

Back at his desk, Oikawa pulls out the sample he’d carefully preserved last night, in addition to a book on petty magics. The old books talk about a time when humans could more freely access magic, and some who even became full-fledged mages. But those days are long gone, and now the minor magics that humans can perform are limited to basic tasks— small levitations, honing spells, and enchanting hunters’ weapons to be effective against wraiths. 

Oikawa has been studying wraiths, magics, and everything related with an almost obsessive fervor. Silver is the basis of most magic spells— gold is more powerful, but far less predictable. He’s crafted himself a small disk, about the size of his palm, that displays the four cardinal directions. There’s no magnet to make it an effective compass; instead, there’s a small indentation at the center of the circle, and now Oikawa scoops the small remnants of the wraith into it. 

He takes a deep breath, calls up the small amount of magic he’s able to access, and wills it towards the silver disk. He waits for a count of five, but nothing happens. The circle sits still in his palm, unmoved.

Oikawa huffs out a breath, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. “Figures,” he murmurs to himself. “Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy.” 

Now, he rummages around in his drawer until he finds a small, sheathed knife. Hunters have to be incredibly cautious about their own blood— spilling any while on the hunt means that wraiths will be drawn towards them, most likely en masse. Even the smallest cut sacrifices the advantage they have, being able to see while the wraiths are helplessly blind. 

But if what Oikawa has been researching is true, blood is also the basis of magic—petty magics and the stronger, lost arts alike. And he’s been working too hard to give up now. So Oikawa takes the knife and cuts a slim line across his thumb. As soon as small beads of blood well up, he presses his thumb against the center of the silver circle. 

“Come on,” he says fiercely, projecting his will through his blood, onto the circle, onto the remains of the wraith. “Work. _Work_.” 

For a moment, nothing happens. Then, the circle begins to shine as though it’s directly under the moonlight. It spins slightly in Oikawa’s palm, the engravings for north and south tilting back and forth until it finds a stable position, coming to hover just above Oikawa’s palm.

Now, a small beacon of opalescent light rises from the center of the circle, pointing outwards towards the woods.

“Yes,” Oikawa breathes out. 

—

He’s not supposed to leave Aoba Johsai’s grounds without permission, after dark. He’s definitely not supposed to go anywhere near the woods on his own. But Oikawa is confident in his own skills, and this is something he needs to prove to himself before he brings it to anyone else— not Irihata-sensei, the head of the training school, or even the High Council itself. 

He keeps one hand clutched around the silver circle, his other gripping his staff. He remembers to don his armor at the last minute, including his captain’s armband. There’s no use in him going in completely unprepared, after all, even if he doesn’t intend to find any wraiths tonight. 

Joy bubbles up inside of him at his success, as he quickly heads towards the line of the woods, still following the small, ghostly light emanating from the charmed circle. Most of the time, hunters are so caught up in killing the wraith in front of them, they don’t think about the bigger picture. Missing the forest for the trees, as it were. 

But Oikawa’s been killing wraiths for over a year now, as only a student. Taking out one at a time isn’t particularly difficult, but it also isn’t effective. For every wraith they kill, there’s still ten more in the depths of the forest, waiting to prey on humans who aren’t trained or well-protected. Oikawa has seen pictures of corpses killed by wraiths— the creatures latch on like leeches, draining a person of all blood until their body is left pale and lifeless. Oikawa purses his lips and shakes his head, thinking of that horrible death. 

He’s not going to graduate just to be another rank-and-file hunter. He’s going to be the one who revolutionizes the game, and frees humanity from their fears. And he’s going to start by finding a wraiths’ nest. 

The opalescent light leads him further and further into the woods, where the trees stand tall and ancient. The light, which has been pointing outward, begins to tilt up at an angle until it is pointing directly towards the sky. Oikawa tilts his head and looks up, and the breath freezes in his chest. 

He’s looking up at a dark canopy of tree branches, curving together and hiding the night sky from view. And hanging from those branches, upside-down like bats, are wraiths. 

Oikawa thinks that if you draped a sheet over someone’s head and then doused them with water, you’d have a good approximation of what a wraith looks like. Folds of dark, shadowing skin drape from their skeletal forms like cloth, over their heads with gaping indentations where eyes and mouths should be. Now, hanging upside down, their arms are folded together over their chests. Oikawa can see the membranous skin that connects their arms to their bodies, like wings.

He cannot tell if they are awake, or asleep. Do wraiths even sleep? The spaces where their eyes should be do not open, so he can’t tell. And yet, they hang there so still, swaying slightly back and forth as if blown by the wind. 

He’s done it— he’s found the wraith’s nest. Now all he needs to do is go back to the castle, and show someone what he’s found, and they can come back here and do away with all of them wraiths at once. This entire area— the town around Aoba Johsai, all the merchants’ paths between here and the larger cities— could be safe.

Oikawa clenches his hands, excitement pulsing through him like a drum’s beat. He doesn’t realize how tightly he’s holding his hands together until he feels a drop of wetness against his palm. He looks down, and sees a smear of dark blood from the cut he’d made on his thumb earlier. 

“Oh,” he whispers. “ _Fuck_.” 

For a moment, the entire forest is utterly still. Then, an unearthly wail goes up from the wraith closest to him, followed by another. Like fire traveling through the trees and lighting everything it touches, each cry from a wraith awakens one of its neighbors. And soon, the entire hoard of them is wailing, the cries so loud that Oikawa can’t hear himself think. 

He barely has a moment to clutch his staff defensively in front of him before the first wave of wraiths descends upon him. 

Oikawa has been training to be a hunter since he was a young child. His skills, while not as overwhelmingly forceful as Iwaizumi’s, are finely-honed and have always been effective. But everything he’d been taught at Aoba Johsai had contemplated a squad of hunters against one wraith, or maybe two if the squad was particularly unlucky. 

Now, Oikawa is facing down dozens of wraiths on his own. He barely has time to stash the charmed circle in his pocket and grip his staff with both hands, spinning it in round and round to ward off the first of the wraiths. His staff isn’t made purely of silver, but there are silver weights at each end of it. As he keeps it moving, the metal throws the wraiths off the scent of his blood for just a moment. 

Oikawa shifts on his feet, jabbing the end of his staff at one of the wraiths and hearing its bones crack with the force of the impact. He shifts again, pulling the staff with him in a graceful arc to come down hard on another wraith’s head. But he can no longer see the moon above him, and sky is clouded over with the hovering forms of the other wraiths. He’s lost count of how many have descended upon him from the trees. 

He moves as quickly as he can, leaves crushing beneath his feet as he uses the staff to extend the space around him and keep the wraiths from getting too close. If one manages to latch onto him, it’s over. 

The thought sends a shiver running through his body, his blood going cold. He’d been so overconfident, so sure that the other hunters had just been too stupid or short-sighted to use blood magic. But maybe he’s made a terrible mistake. 

In the moment he stops moving, one of the wraiths swipes at him with its clawed fingers. Oikawa feels his skin splitting, his neck and shoulder bleeding immediately. He lets out a gasp of pain, pushing the wraith away from him with his staff. 

His weapon isn’t even as deadly as it could be. He’s always relied on having Iwaizumi around him, and Hanamaki and Matsukawa. Most of the strategies they’ve developed rely on Oikawa manipulating their positions, pushing a wraith one way or goading it in a different direction so that Iwaizumi can slice it down with his sword, or Matsukawa can pierce it with his lance. Oikawa’s staff, on its own, is woefully inadequate. 

Another wraith gets too close, and Oikawa feels another sharp cut opening across his back. His armor is useless against this torrent of attacks, and the wraiths’ cries grow into something sickeningly triumphant as the smell of Oikawa’s blood fills the air. Iron sits heavily in the air, and Oikawa grows dizzier. 

He should have told someone he was coming out here— now, they’ll never even find his body. Another wraith slashes at his legs, and Oikawa falls to his knees with a cry of pain. He can’t imagine that the mourning will last very long— instead, he’ll be remembered for his wasted potential and his foolishness. 

Oikawa’s staff clatters to the ground a few feet away from him, and he looks up to see a wraith descending towards him, the space of its mouth gaping like a black hole. At soon as it latches on, it won’t release Oikawa until it has sucked him dry. 

“No,” he gasps, piteously. This cannot be the way he’s going to die— not on a night that should have been defined by his own triumph. He refuses. 

The wraith strikes out with one hand, and Oikawa can no longer scream. The gash cuts across his neck and collarbone, deeper than the rest. He’s no expert on medicine, but he doubts this is the sort of wound people typically survive. 

Somehow, he reaches out for his staff and pulls it up in front of him, enough to ward off the wraith with its silver. The rest are still circling around him, but Oikawa forces himself to his feet and hobbles away from the center of the storm, leaning heavily on his staff. 

What can he do? Where can he go? If he can get back towards the edge of the forest, there’s some hope that at least his body will be found after the wraiths have drained it. It’s not much of a hope, but it’s all Oikawa can cling to in the moment. So, he musters what’s left of his strength and breaks into a hobbling run. 

The wraiths are screaming behind him, and he can feel the chilling wind that accompanies them as they pursue him. Oikawa throws himself into the trees, wincing as the branches pull at his already-tortured skin. But he forces himself to keep going, trudging forward as much as he can.

Eventually, the trees begin to grow further away from each other, and Oikawa bursts through them into a clearing. He isn’t thinking clearly, and doesn’t recognize where he is. He glances skyward, searching desperately for the white towers of Aoba Johsai. He doesn’t see them. 

Instead, past the trees, he sees the looming walls of a white marble fortress. Oikawa gasps, trying to think through his pain. Had he gone the wrong way? Through the woods, instead of back the way he’d come? 

Moonlight is filtering down into the clearing, and Oikawa hears the rush of a stream. Still hearing the cries of the wraiths behind him, he forces himself forward. 

He stops amongst the trees when the comes to the stream, seeing the shadow of a human figure sitting on its banks. Oikawa can barely keep himself upright, but something holds him back from running to this person and begging for their help.

It’s a man— tall and broad-shouldered, dressed simply. He’s extending a hand forward, and soon another man joins him— much slighter in form, and dressed in dark pants and a luminous white shirt with a low, dipping neckline. 

The smaller man drops to his knees in front of the other, leaning forward slightly. The first man, still seated, reaches forward to brush the other’s straight, pale hair away from his face. He cradles the other man’s face between his hands for a moment, almost tenderly. 

Oikawa can feel his time slipping away, counted by his heartbeats. But somehow he’s frozen, looking at these two. 

The taller man— dark-haired, with handsome, sculpted features— leans towards the other. His teeth flash white in the moonlight, canines extended to wicked points. Before Oikawa can process this, the man pulls his companion towards him and lowers his mouth against the other’s neck, kissing the skin there gently. 

Then, the other man gasps as the first presses his teeth into his neck. The smaller man’s hand comes up helplessly, gripping the other’s shirt. His eyes roll back, lashes fluttering. If Oikawa could smell anything beyond his own blood, he’s sure the tang of iron would be coming from these two, as well. 

The taller man laps at his companion’s neck, eyes pressing closed as he savors the blood like a fine wine. The other’s hand curls in his shirt, fingers clenched so tightly that his tendons stand out in thick lines. 

“Ushi—” the smaller man gasps, “Ushijima-san—”

Oikawa’s eyes go round, and Watari’s words from earlier echo deafeningly in his skill.

 _Monsters with human faces_ …

Ushijima pulls back after a moment, his tongue tracing the wounds he’s left of his companion’s neck. He presses his lips where his tongue had been, then pulls back. His canines are still visible, dyed red with blood.

His companion gasps and falls forward, leaning against Ushijima’s chest for support. Ushijima puts one arm around his waist, holding him steady in a perfunctory way. 

“Are you alright, Shirabu?” 

His companion— Shirabu— nods against Ushijima’s neck before pulling away. His skin is pale in the moonlight, but he looks up at Ushijima with keen eyes. 

“Do you smell that?” 

Ushijima glances around, then nods curtly. “We aren’t alone.” 

Oikawa’s muscles seize up with painful tension. He’s never heard of any creatures other than wraiths that feast on human blood, not in anything beyond children’s stories. And instead of sucking Shirabu dry, this man— this monster— had pulled away and left him alive. Oikawa doesn’t know if that makes him more or less frightening than the mindless wraiths. 

He doesn’t have time to think about it, because a shadow has fallen over him. Looking up, Oikawa sees Ushijima standing in front of him. 

“What are you doing here,” Ushijima says calmly, his voice deep and rich and utterly uninflected. 

Oikawa stands frozen, unable to answer. 

Ushijima sniffs the air, and Oikawa is certain that he will smell nothing but the metal tang of Oikawa’s blood. 

Ushijima’s eyes— golden, vibrant, piercing— shutter closed for a moment. “You’re dying,” he says simply. 

At this, Oikawa finds his voice. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, and maybe he really is dying, and that’s making him brave and foolish. “I’m too beautiful to die.” 

Ushijima tilts his head to one side and blinks, as though considering this.

“Ushijima-san,” Shirabu says from behind him, questioning. 

“Go back to the manor, Shirabu,” Ushijima says, voice firm and definitive. “I will be along shortly.”

Shirabu throws a disparaging look at Oikawa and rolls his eyes. “If you’re still hungry, you don’t need to resort to—”

“Go back to the manor, Shirabu.” 

This time, Shirabu obeys immediately. A little unsteady on his feet, he walks along the stream until Oikawa can no longer see him. 

Then, all he can do is look back up at Ushijima. 

The monster with a human face regards him carefully. “You must have some will, to make it here past the wraiths in that state.” 

Oikawa nods dumbly, unsure of what to say. Blood drips down from his neck, seeps through his clothes. The world begins to grow fuzzy at the edges of his vision. 

“How strong is that will?” Ushijima asks. “Is it enough to live on? Do you have something to live for?”

Not if he bleeds out, Oikawa thinks scathingly. No amount of will can keep a person alive, then. 

But whatever Ushijima sees, searching his face, seems to decide the matter for him. He leans forward, brushing his fingers along the wound at Oikawa’s neck. 

Oikawa thought he was already in the worst pain he’d ever felt, but Ushijima’s touch burns. He’s barely making contact, but something white-hot flares between them, and Oikawa throws back his head and screams. 

Ushijima pulls his hand away, and the pain stops. He raises his fingers to his lips, meticulously licking them clean of Oikawa’s blood. 

“Yes,” Ushijima decides.

Oikawa, gasping and shuddering from the pain, cannot ask what question Ushijima is answering.

Ushijima raises his own wrist towards his mouth, sinking his sharp fangs into his skin. He holds his bleeding wrist against his mouth for a moment, then two.

Oikawa is transfixed, unable to look away. 

Ushijima reaches out and pulls Oikawa towards him, and Oikawa is too weak to pull himself away. Ushijima’s face hovers above his for a moment, and then Ushijima’s lips are on his own, forcing Oikawa’s mouth open. 

It doesn’t feel like a kiss, Oikawa thinks dimly, and he’s no stranger to those. It’s somehow more intimate. The blood in Ushijima’s mouth flows into his own, and Oikawa can taste it— not like iron, but something else. Ushijima lifts a hand to Oikawa’s throat, coaxing him to swallow. Too dizzy to do anything else but obey his instincts, Oikawa does. 

He thinks he’s having a heart attack. His body jolts and then freezes, muscles locked in a state of painful tension. His blood is screaming in his veins, his entire body burning. He wants to scream, but his jaw is locked.

The world tilts on its axis around him. Then tension releases and Oikawa sways, much like Shirabu had, and falls forward. Strong arms catch him, and lift him up off the ground. 

“You should hold on to that will,” Ushijima says. “You will need it.”

As the world grows dark, Oikawa thinks about all the people he’s kissed, and the one person he’d never been able to. It’s a piteous way to die, knowing secrets about the world he can never tell, and carrying his own to his grave.

—

His throat is burning. Oikawa can’t remember the last time he had the flu, but now he feels the roughness at the back of his throat, the tell-tale sign that he’ll be sick within the next few hours. He hates being sick, especially now that he can’t expect his mother to make him soup and coddle him. Iwaizumi doesn’t coddle him, though he has been known to make Oikawa soup. He’s actually a pretty good cook, as far as Oikawa can tell when his mouth is full of sickness and his tongue can’t taste properly. 

He opens his mouth to whine, to call out for Iwaizumi, but no sound escapes. His entire body is sore, like it usually feels after a particularly rough training session. Oikawa doesn’t particularly like it when Iwaizumi manages to throw him down onto the practice mats, flat on his back, but he can admit that it’s impressive. 

Now he’s sure he’s getting sick. That’s why his thoughts are looping around like this, keeping him from clarity. Is he missing class, right now? Did Iwaizumi come by to try and wake him? Why can’t he remember going to bed, last night? What had he been doing—

It comes back to him in a rush of clarity: the charmed circle, the wraith’s dust, his own blood. The monster with a human face, and the strange taste of his blood. 

He must be dead. He feels cold and alone and tired, and his throat _burns_. Why isn’t death more peaceful than this, more full of nothingness? 

“Shh, shh,” someone says, laughing. “We’ve got to be quiet—”

“You couldn’t be quiet to save your life,” another person responds, with a huff. 

The first person chirps back a response, tone teasing. Both voices grow lower, bandying back and forth. 

“He’s not going to wake up, anyway,” the first voice says, going higher. “You took three days to wake up again— remember, Semisemi?” 

“I’ve told you not to call me that,” the second person says tiredly. 

“Mmm,” the first returns easily. “I’ll stop if you give me a drink.” 

The voices make it impossible for Oikawa to fall back asleep, or back into whatever state he’d been in, before. His eyes open, and he can barely make out the smudged outlines of a dimly-lit room. This isn’t Aoba Johsai. The bed he’s lying in is plush and soft, nothing like the serviceable, narrow accommodations provided by the hunters. He reaches out and runs his hands along the sheets his lying on— soft and smooth, probably silk. 

Where the hell is he? And how did he get here? 

Now, as his vision clears, he can see the two figures standing across the room. One of them has bright red hair that stands out even in the hazy light. He stands with his back against the wall, arms loosely wrapped around his companion’s waist. The two men stand back to front, and although the second is scowling he rests his hands gently against the other’s arms where they hold him. 

If he isn’t alone, Oikawa can ask these two for help. And hopefully they’ll get him out of here, before that monster comes back.

But before Oikawa can call out, the red-haired man nuzzles against his companion’s neck. “Eita,” he says, voice going low and rough. “Please?”

It doesn’t sound much like a request. His companion— Eita? Semi?— rolls his eyes, but tilts his head back against the other’s shoulder. 

“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “But be quick about it, Tendou. We’re supposed to be watching—”

He doesn’t have a chance to finish the statement, because Tendou grins widely before sinking his teeth into Semi’s neck. Semi shudders, his eyes fluttering shut as Tendou drinks deeply from him. He’s messy about it, red blood staining his lips and teeth, dripping down from his mouth. Semi’s hands tighten against Tendou’s arms, either to hold him back or keep him locked in place. 

Oikawa can’t help it— he gasps aloud, his throat feeling like it’s about to rip in two. He should have realized he’d been brought somewhere that isn’t safe. This must be a nest, for these wraith-people. Whatever they are. 

“See what you’ve done?” Tendou says, pulling away from Semi’s neck. His entire face is messy with blood. “You woke him up.”

“You were the one making noise,” Semi hisses, as Tendou licks against the wounds on his neck. But then Semi’s eyes flicker to Oikawa and narrow. “How is he awake? It hasn’t even been a day—”

Oikawa does not wait to hear what else they might be saying. He pushes himself up to his feet, scrambling out of the bed and immediately falling to his knees. His body is still aching, and though he doesn’t feel the stabbing pain of his wounds any longer, Oikawa knows he isn’t in good shape. Maybe the monsters are only keeping him alive so they can drink him dry later.

“Hey, hey,” Tendou says, laughing as he finally lets go of Semi. “Calm down, would ya? You’re going to hurt yourself, like that.” He doesn’t sound like he actually cares, about that.

“What do we do?” Semi asks. “Wakatoshi’s not getting back until tomorrow—”

“Stay away from me,” Oikawa interrupts, words a hiss through his aching throat. 

Tendou steps forward, head cocked to one side. “Or what?” he asks, genuinely curious. 

What, indeed. But Oikawa glares as fiercely as he can, holding his arms in front of him in a weak facsimile of his usual fighting stance. “I’ll kill you,” he promises, with more conviction that he feels. 

Tendou clicks his tongue. “How mean,” he says. “After all, you’d be dead now if it wasn’t for us.”

“ _You_ didn’t do anything,” Semi says, elbowing Tendou in the side. 

Oikawa is terribly exposed, like this. He’s dressed only in the undershirt and pants of his hunter’s uniform, all his armor gone. Glancing around, he can’t see his staff or any other weapons. If he’s going to get out of here, he’ll have to be smart about it. He can’t be weak, and useless, like he’d been in front of that other monster— Ushijima. 

“You probably want to lay down,” Semi is telling him. “You shouldn’t be awake at all.” 

“Stay away,” Oikawa hisses, again. He looks around desperately, trying to find a way out of this room. There’s a sliver of light filtering from somewhere above Tendou— a hatch, or a trapdoor? Whatever it is, it’s the best hope he can see. 

Tendou spreads his arms widely. “Don’t worry,” he says, smiling wickedly. “You’re a member of the family, now, and we’ll—”

Something about his words sends a flare of panic through Oikawa, but he doesn’t stop to process what Tendou means. Mustering up whatever strength he can, he feigns right before sprinting around to Semi’s left side. He shoves Semi against Tendou, and the two are caught off-guard. They tumble to one side, and Oikawa reaches up, his fingers just brushing the ceiling of the small room. 

The door is made of wood, and Oikawa presses against it with a frantic energy until it flips open. Light floods into the room, and Semi and Tendou both groan from where they’ve been getting to their feet. 

Oikawa doesn’t look back. He reaches upwards and grabs for purchase on the sides of door’s opening, hoisting himself upwards and pulling his legs up close to his chest. 

“Hey!” Tendou screams from somewhere below him. “Get back here!” 

But Oikawa doesn’t listen. He swings himself through the door’s opening, landing on a patch of grass outside. The sunlight is blinding around him— it must be close to noon, how long was he asleep?—but he quickly forces himself to his feet. 

He doesn’t bother to look back, at the strange underground room he’d just been in. Instead, he runs.

—

His body is screaming for him to stop by the time Oikawa finds the bubbling stream, and the line of the woods beyond it. After last night, it would be terribly stupid to go back into the woods. But it’s daylight, which means the wraiths won’t pose as much of a danger. No one has ever seen a wraith during the noontime. 

And in any case, what more does Oikawa have to fear? The wraiths are nothing, compared to those worse monsters he’s now seen. 

Something more potent than adrenaline must be running in his veins, now. Because as Oikawa runs towards the trees, he can’t feel much of anything at all.

He cuts a straight line through the woods, ignoring the way the branches tug at his skin. Instead, he keeps running, trusting his instincts to guide him in a clear path towards Aoba Johsai. He needs to go home. 

He doesn’t know how long it takes. He really has no idea how large the woods actually are— it’s not as if anyone’s ever tried to travel straight through them. It’s always safer to stick to the boundaries, even if it makes travel longer. It’s always a safer bet to deal with the one wraith that might stray close to the woods’ edge, than to deal with however many of them live at its center.

Oikawa could almost laugh at that wisdom, now. He’d flouted it, and the result has been this living nightmare. 

The sun is still blazing overhead when the trees finally begin to thin around him. Each breath is a crushing weight against his lungs, but Oikawa keeps going. Finally, finally, he can see the signature white towers of Aoba Johsai rising against the horizon. 

He doesn’t know if he’s being pursued, if he’s lead those monsters straight back to his home. But a part of Oikawa believes that the hunters— the _real_ hunters, not foolish students with too-grand ambitions— will be more than a match for them. 

As he walks closer, it’s easy to feel safe. Even though his vision is growing dimmer, once more, and the stabbing pains have started again. He can taste blood in the back of his throat. 

“Iwa-chan’s going to be so mad at me,” he says, to no one in particular. Then he falls forward, landing heavily on the ground outside Aoba Johsai’s gates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://newamsterdame.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](https://twitter.com/newamsterdame)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for talk of appetite/avoiding food, vomiting, and general blood mentions.

He wakes from a dreamless sleep like a person bursting through the surface of a lake, gasping for breath and disoriented. The world is white around him, no distinct shapes visible. For a moment, he thrashes, pulling at the covers laid over him and struggling to find solid ground. Then, strong hands press against his shoulders and force him to lie back. He looks towards the source of the touch, and his white vision goes red. He can see the lines of veins, the flow of blood and the central, beating pulse of a heart. For a moment, he’s stuck between the fierce contrast of white and red. Then, as though the heart is pumping color and clarity back into his world, everything slowly comes into focus. 

Oikawa is lying in his own bed, staring up at the ceiling as Iwaizumi holds him down.

“Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asks in a gravelly voice. “Am I dead?” 

The pressure on his shoulders releases and Iwaizumi steps back. “No,” he says. “But I’m going to kill you.”

Oikawa blinks to clear his vision once more, turning his head to see Iwaizumi in focus. He’s wearing the white shirt and dark slacks of Aoba Johsai’s school uniform, his tie and blazer discarded somewhere. The shirt is crumpled and the skin around Iwaizumi’s eyes is creased with fatigue. The straight-backed, wooden chair that normally sits in front of Oikawa’s desk is now at his bedside, and after a moment Iwaizumi drops back into it and runs one hand over his face.

“Just what in the hell were you thinking?” Iwaizumi’s face is still hidden from view, his voice rough and muffled. 

Oikawa tries to think back to the last thing he can remember— flashes of silver and the scent of blood, the overriding feelings of terror and hopelessness and the briefest flash of an unbending conviction to live.

He coughs, pushing up on his hands so that he’s sitting upright in bed. Shaking his head, he frowns.

“I don’t remember.” 

Iwaizumi raises his head and glowers. “Don’t fuck around with me, Oikawa. Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? What we’ve _all_ been through? Your parents were here, and we all thought the physicians were going to pronounce you _dead_ at any moment—”

“My parents?” Oikawa screeches, looking around as though they might be hidden somewhere in the room. “My _mother_?”

Iwaizumi looks at him flatly, as though judging what Oikawa is choosing to react to. “Yes, you idiot, your mother. They didn’t think you’d live through the night, of course she came.” 

Oikawa’s mother had been elected to the High Council only a few years ago, and Oikawa has seen her sparingly since then. She’s Aoba Johsai’s representative to the hunters’ highest governing body, and though she sends messages regularly, it’s impossible to expect her to be pulled away from her duties too often. Which means that if she was here, and Oikawa’s father had come from the research complex, too, then they had really thought he was going to die. 

His hands are shaking as Oikawa presses them against his face, trying to process the gravity of his situation.

“What—” His voice comes out like a mouse’s squeak, and Oikawa scowls at himself before clearing his throat and trying again. “What happened?” 

Iwaizumi still has that inscrutable look in his eyes, irises as hard and green as jade. 

“That’s supposed to be my question,” he says, before heaving a long-suffering sigh. “You were found just outside the gates, covered in blood. They rushed you to the medical ward, and the physicians were hanging over you for hours. _They wouldn’t let me_ —no one would tell me what was going on. You needed transfusions. And then— it must’ve been hours later, maybe a day?—your mom came sweeping in and said ‘Let me see him’ in that terrifying voice of hers, and of course everyone moved out of the way—”

As he speaks, Oikawa can just imagine it— his mother in long, white cloak of her office, dark eyes blazing with defiance for anyone would keep her from her goal. His father in-step behind her, the light shining off the rim of his glasses as he makes no move to intercede between his wife and the frantic doctors. 

“Where are they, now?” Oikawa asks. “My parents?”

“Your mother got called away about a day ago,” Iwaizumi says. “Something about a rash of disappearances in the south. She refused to go until you were stable. Until we were positive you’d live.”

“I can’t believe she came, at all. A day ago… how long was I out?” 

Iwaizumi gives Oikawa a long, hard look. “Three days.” 

_Three days_. The words echo in Oikawa’s skull, in someone else’s voice.

“I…” He coughs, his throat raw and painful. “Hey. I need to tell you something.” 

Iwaizumi’s gaze never leaves him. His jaw is clenched as he holds in his anger, moderates his voice. “What is it?” 

Images flash through Oikawa’s mind, slowly knitting themselves together. A flash of silver, the scent of blood, the dark hollows of unseeing eyes.

“I found the wraiths’ nest.” 

The room is silent for a moment. Then, Iwaizumi is on his feet again.

“You. Did. _What_.” 

Oikawa looks down, cowed by Iwaizumi’s anger. “I’ve been working on it for a while, actually. I thought if we could find a large number of them, and take them out all at once, we’d actually have a chance to get rid of them once and for all.”

“We can barely take on one or two at a time with a four-person squad,” Iwaizumi bites out. “And you went to take on a _nest_ of them _alone_?” 

Oikawa shakes his head, hears Iwaizumi’s disbelieving snort in response.

“I found my way there— I wasn’t going to take them all on by myself, I’m not _stupid_ —”

“Debatable,” Iwaizumi growls.

“But they attacked me, before I could get away,” Oikawa continues. He shuts his eyes as he remembers the quick slashes of their claws, the biting pain of his wounds. “I was bleeding, and more of them kept coming— I couldn’t fight them off— so I ran.” 

He can feel the pulse of Iwaizumi’s anger, the heavy beat of his heart.

“How could you be so unbelievably stupid?” Iwaizumi demands. 

Oikawa doesn’t raise his head to look Iwaizumi in the eye. “I thought I was doing the right thing.” 

Iwaizumi sighs again and drops back into the chair. When Oikawa looks up, he sees the lines across Iwaizumi’s face, the skin stretched around the scar on his cheek. He looks tired, and haggard, and almost _old_. And Oikawa knows he’s done that to him. 

“You could’ve told me, asshole. _Before_ you left.”

Oikawa purses his lips. “You would’ve stopped me.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi agrees. “I would have. Which is why _you should have told me_.” 

The weight of those words settles between them for a moment, and then Iwaizumi huffs out a breath.

“What did you do with your staff? It wasn’t found with you, where you collapsed.”

Oikawa bites the inside of his cheek, trying to think. “I must have dropped it after…”

“After what?” 

He remembers now, with startlingly clarity. Ushijima, the golden-eyed monster, drinking blood from the other— Shirabu. The taste of Ushijima’s blood in his own mouth, and then the shadowy laugh of Tendou, and Semi’s knife-like stare. Had they all been monsters? He’d only seen Ushijima and Tendou drinking blood, redness staining their teeth. 

Iwaizumi is waiting for an answer. But as Oikawa looks up at him his memories crash against the present, and for a moment he sees Iwaizumi with his neck craned back, sharp white teeth digging into his skin. The glow of red and golden eyes lingers behind him, and Oikawa can smell blood in the air. But all he can focus on is the sight of someone else’s teeth against Iwaizumi’s skin, someone else’s tongue lapping at his blood, _someone else_ —

If he tells Iwaizumi about Ushijima and the others, what will he do? Oikawa fears he already knows the answer to that question. Iwaizumi has the spirit of a hero, of a champion, far more than Oikawa ever has. Iwaizumi would charge into a hopeless battle to protect those he cared for. And if he knew Ushijima’s kind existed, he would know that everything he cares for is under threat. And Oikawa cannot send him into a hopeless battle, that can only end with someone else drinking his blood and draining the life from him.

He shudders bodily, lifting his hands to dig into the sides of his head. Steeling himself, he answers finally, “After the wraiths attacked me.” 

Iwaizumi is still looking at him. But he doesn’t push the point, or ask the reason for Oikawa’s hesitation. “How did you get away?” 

Oikawa shakes his head. “I don’t remember. I ran. I ran as far as I could.” 

Iwaizumi seems to accept that answer, for now. “Alright,” he says. “Alright.” 

“If I was out for three days,” Oikawa asks, “how many hunts have I missed?” It’s not really himself that he’s worried about, more the idea that his squad would have been out in those woods without him, without _knowing_.

He doesn’t expect Iwaizumi to laugh darkly. 

“Not as many as you’re going to,” Iwaizumi says. 

“What?”

“You’ve been unconscious for three days,” Iwaizumi says, as though it’s obvious. “And you disobeyed orders and left the castle on your own. Did you really think Irihata wasn’t going to bench you?”

Oikawa sputters. “He can’t— what about the squad—”

“The three of us will work with Yahaba,” Iwaizumi says easily. “He needs more practice as a strategist before he graduates, anyway.” 

“And what am I supposed to do, then?” Oikawa demands. But he has the sickening feeling that he already knows. As advanced as he is, there are only so many punishments that Irihata can give him. “Wait— don’t tell me—” 

Iwaizumi smiles at him, dark and challenging. “You’re on training duty, once you’re back on your feet.”

Oikawa lets that statement sink in, then falls back against his pillows and groans. “You really should just kill me, Iwa-chan.” 

Iwaizumi huffs out a breath. “Idiot,” he says, without any real bite. “You should be grateful that you’re alive.” He reaches out and ruffles Oikawa’s messy hair, and for a moment Oikawa sighs and lets himself enjoy the touch.

—

Oikawa can’t really describe the next few days. He sleeps through much of them, awaking long enough for a visit to the infirmary. As one of the old, familiar physicians checks him over, she shakes her head and makes notes. Oikawa, usually curious about anything and everything, can’t bring himself to ask questions about what happened to him. He knows he was critically wounded, and lost far too much blood. But beyond the transfusions and the bandages over large portions of his body, he doesn’t know how he survived. From the strange look on the physician’s face, she doesn’t know, either. 

Iwaizumi brings him dinner every night, but Oikawa doesn’t have an appetite. All he really feels is thirsty, but no matter how much water he drinks he’s never sated. Hanamaki and Matsukawa come by to visit, mimicking Iwaizumi’s stern stare and lectures until they break into laughter. Hanamaki punches Oikawa in the shoulder, and Matsukawa ruffles his hair, and both of them have worry lingering in the corners of their eyes. 

Three days after he woke up, the first time, the physician tells him he’s ready to rejoin the world, so to speak. 

So the next morning, Oikawa gets out of bed on time and drags himself to the small washroom connected to his room. He showers quickly after unwinding the bandages on his body, fingers lingering against the angry pink lines crisscrossing his shoulders and neck. He’d expected the scars to be bigger, redder, more pronounced. Instead, they look like they’re already fading. 

Oikawa towels himself off and turns towards the mirror hanging on the wall. He gazes at his reflection for a moment, trying to discern if he’s changed beyond the pink scars.

He hasn’t told anyone about Ushijima, or the rest of it. Part of him thinks that no one will believe him. Like they’d told Watari, those children’s stories don’t hold much weight in the real world. Oikawa’s already on thin ice, as far as the hunters go. If he starts talking about real, true monsters, what will they think of him? Will they ever let him be a hunter, after that?

How can he expect to be a hunter, anyway, when fear is a festering thing living inside of him? 

Oikawa clenches his teeth to keep from shuddering, and looks back at his reflection. He inherited his height and build from his father, his coloring from his mother. His hair, still damp, sticks to his forehead and neck in dark brown clumps. His skin is paler than it had been a week ago, devoid of its usual rosiness. As he blinks at his face in the mirror, he sees redness seeping over his irises— like paint dripped into a glass of water, slowly dispersing. The red cloud pools over his eyes, until they’re completely red. 

He’s entranced by the color, leaning towards the mirror until he sees eyes glowing around him— gold, red, amber. 

Oikawa shrieks and jumps backward, smacking his head against the door of his bathroom. Pain erupts across the back of his skull, and Oikawa drops his towel and ends up in a heap on the floor, cradling his head in his hands, his earlier vision fading. 

“Why me,” he moans, before he musters the strength to get up and dressed for morning training. 

—

Aoba Johsai’s training uniforms are simple and serviceable— loose gray pants belted at the waist, and tight-fit, sleeveless white shirts. The shirt leaves Oikawa’s scars on display, and he briefly considers new bandages. But the wounds won’t open again, and scars aren’t as much a sign of weakness as most people believe. Slipping into his practice shoes, Oikawa takes a deep breath and heads for the training gym. 

But waiting for him in the doorway is Iwaizumi, leaned up against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks at Oikawa steadily as he asks, “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

Oikawa frowns at the implication. He’s been cleared for duty by a physician, and put on this assignment both as a punishment and to make himself useful, again. Who is Iwaizumi to question that?

“Would I be here if I wasn’t?” Oikawa asks airily, trying for nonchalance.

Iwaizumi’s frown deepens. “Yes,” he grumbles. “You would. And I didn’t see you at breakfast.” 

“I wasn’t hungry,” Oikawa says, which isn’t a lie. The closer he stands to him, the more aware he is of Iwaizumi’s presence. It’s as though he can hear the beat of his heart, feel his every intake of breath. 

“And yet you’re going to go roll around with a bunch of hyperactive teenagers for two hours,” Iwaizumi says.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says with stressed patience, “Weren’t you the one laughing about me being on this assignment?” 

Iwaizumi blinks his eyes closed for a moment, as though he’s steeling his patience. “Yeah. Because you deserve. But you were on your death bed only a few days ago. And I don’t think you really understand that.”

Oikawa hates being condescended to, and least of all by people he respects utterly. And maybe even more so than that when the pity, or concern, is coming from Iwaizumi. He doesn’t want Iwaizumi to coddle him. He wants something far different from him.

“Well,” Oikawa says haughtily, “Then I guess it’s a good thing you’re here to remind me, Mom.”

Iwaizumi winces. “Don’t do that.” 

“Don’t do what?”

“Write me off like that, like what I’m saying doesn’t matter. In case you hadn’t noticed, you fucked up this time, Oikawa. And if it had been any worse, no one would’ve been able to save you.” Iwaizumi’s eyes flash with anger. 

“So?” Oikawa asks, temper honed to a sharp edge. “Did I ask you to save me?” 

Iwaizumi drops his arms to his sides, hands clenching into fists. “Shut up.” 

“No,” Oikawa parries. “I don’t think I will. You think I don’t know that I fucked up? Well, I do. I don’t need you reminding me every five minutes. I don’t need you hanging over me all of the time, either.”

“I’m just trying to make sure you’re alright!” Iwaizumi yells. 

“Well, don’t!” Oikawa throws his hands into the air. “If I’m such a stupid burden, then drop me! Let me figure this out on my own!” 

Iwaizumi goes quiet for a moment, but now he’s looking at Oikawa searchingly. “Figure what out? What’s going on with you?” 

Iwaizumi wants to know what Oikawa isn’t telling him. But even beneath his anger, Oikawa can’t open himself up to let Iwaizumi into the danger he’s discovered. He refuses to do that. 

“Just leave it alone, Iwa-chan,” he says tiredly. “Leave me alone.”

Iwaizumi purses his lips, but doesn’t argue. “If that’s what you want.” His voice sounds hollow. 

Oikawa doesn’t look at him as he walks away.

—

The trainees are dressed much the same as Oikawa, except that the sashes they wear around their waists are royal blue instead of aquamarine— indicating that they have not yet matriculated into the highest levels of the training school. When they notice Oikawa standing in the doorway, most of the trainees cease sparring and turn to offer Oikawa respectful half-bows. 

Only one group fails to do this. Instead of a one-on-one fight, these trainees are sparring in a group of three. All three of them have black hair, and circle one another in practiced movements. Two of them are directing their energies at the third, but he’s putting up a fierce fight. 

Kindaichi attacks with a two-handed grip on his broadsword. It’s wooden, for the sake of training, which makes the way Kageyama ducks out of the way of the attack slightly less impressive. On his other side, Kunimi advances with a single, graceful stab of his rapier. Kageyama dodges that, as well, but when Kindaichi and Kunimi attack at once, he’s forced to raise the two matching short staves he carries to hold back their wooden swords. 

Kindaichi and Kunimi press forward, and Oikawa can see the veins straining in Kageyama’s arms as he keeps both weapons away from his face. Any contact with his head, chest or neck would result in a victory for the other two. He manages to hold them off for a moment longer, then abruptly drops to his knees. Kindaichi stumbles forward now that he’s not being held back, falling on top of Kunimi. Kageyama’s on his feet again in an instant, tapping his stave against the back of Kindaichi’s neck, and then the side of Kunimi’s head. 

“I win,” he says simply, stepping back.

Still on the floor, Kindaichi scowls. Before Kageyama can react, Kindaichi kicks at his ankle, bringing Kageyama crashing down on top of him and Kunimi. Kageyama looks confused as he pushes himself back to his feet, but Kindaichi and Kunimi are laughing. 

By this point, Oikawa has seen more than enough. He walks to the center of the practice area, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. This time, Kageyama and the others notice him, and bow their greetings appropriately. 

“Alright,” Oikawa calls. “If Tobio-chan has had enough time to show off, everyone circle up. I’ll be running your training, today.” 

It’s gratifying, the way they run to obey him. Oikawa demonstrates the drills and forms he wants them to go through, then watches as they pair off and begin to practice. In all honesty, it’s not training itself that he minds. In another life, he thinks he would’ve lived a comfortable existence as an official trainer or teacher for the school. But his ambitions are grander, and he hates looking out over the younger students and seeing within them the seeds of competition. Especially before he’s had the chance to make a name for himself. 

Kindaichi and Kunimi pair off for this particular drill, leaving Kageyama with another partner. Oikawa circles around each of the pairs, but his eyes are drawn back to Kageyama again and again. Kageyama grits his teeth as he throws his everything into the drill, his movements practiced and sure. As the minutes drag on, Oikawa can see the vein standing out stark in Kageyama’s neck. 

He’s so focused on watching the subtle movement of Kageyama’s pulse that it takes three calls of his name to realize another student is asking for his attention. Shaking his head, Oikawa forces himself to refocus. 

The session seems to go on forever, until finally it’s time to dismiss the students. They bow and then scurry off to store their training weapons, wiping the sweat off of their brows and retying their hair. Oikawa stands in the center of the gym for a moment longer, closing his eyes and trying to figure out why his head feels so fuzzy.

“—Oikawa-san?”

It’s impossible to know how many times Kageyama has called his name when Oikawa finally opens his eyes to look at him. He’s only a few years Oikawa’s junior, but he still looks like a child— his blue eyes are round and guileless, and though he has the build of a fighter he stands awkwardly when he doesn’t have a weapon in is hands and an opponent in front of him. 

Oikawa sighs heavily and brings a hand to his cheek, feigning interest. “Yes, Tobio-chan?”

Kageyama scowls at the use of his given name. It’s customary for trainees to be referred to by surname, but Oikawa doesn’t really care.

“If you’re teaching us, now, could you teach me how to fight with a staff?” 

Oikawa frowns. Most trainees are attracted to flashier weapons— swords, bows and arrows, knives. Staffs are less obviously offensive, and require a subtler type of skill. He doesn’t want to admit it, but Kageyama may just have that skill. 

He’s too tired, too exhausted from the ordeals of the past week, to even pretend to have patience for Kageyama. “No,” he says simply. Then he turns and leaves the gym.

—

It’s midday, but Oikawa feels no desire to go and sit through a meal. Instead, he heads through the main courtyard and towards the south tower, where the library is housed. Normally, when he’s there, he’s looking for information on wraiths and petty magics. But today he has a different aim.

He starts with the shelves of folklore, looking for anything about monsters with human faces. He pulls anything he can find about blood-sucking monsters, even if they’re stories about wraiths that he already knows. But after the first hour of research, Oikawa has the sinking suspicion that he’s not going to find anything useful. 

He reads one story about a blood-drinking man who disintegrates under the light of the sun. Another tells of a beautiful woman who paralyzes people with the force of her hypnotic stare. One story, a translation, uses the word monster and wraith interchangeably, but describes both as human-looking, which makes no sense. Frustrated, Oikawa pushes the books away. 

Perhaps he’s the first person to ever see these monsters. But if that’s true, how can he figure out what’s happened to him? Oikawa goes to sign out a few of the books, to look at again with a clearer head. The itch of thirst persists in this throat, and he keeps getting distracted by the movement of other students around him. 

—

Aoba Johsai’s main campus is made up of four towers arranged around a central courtyard. The architects had favored white and pale gray stones, and there are curling vines growing up over many of the buildings. The courtyard holds a small pond surrounded by round stones, low-growing trees and rosebushes arranged artfully around it. 

It’s just before sunset, and Oikawa is halfway across the courtyard when he notices a figure standing near one of the trees. He’s familiar, but not in a way that makes him belong here. Instead, Oikawa sees pale hair that grows darker at the tips, bare arms and a sheathed weapon at the man’s hip. _Semi_.

He has no idea how he makes it across the courtyard so fast, but one moment he’s walking towards the north tower and the next he has Semi pressed up against the tree, forearm held vertically across the other man’s throat. 

“ _How did you get here_?” Oikawa hisses, exerting more pressure as Semi glares back at him. 

His eyes are dark and deep, shining the color of garnets in the dimming light. His eyes are narrowed at Oikawa, but he doesn’t struggle. Instead, he waits a beat before saying, mildly, “I’ve been sent to keep an eye on you.” 

The fact that he’s here, the fact that he can speak, means that Oikawa hadn’t been dreaming about Ushijima, Tendou, and the others. It means everything he remembers was real, and that Ushijima had done _something_ to him. And now these monsters have found him again, in the heart of his home, which is supposed to be a fortress. 

“By who?” Oikawa demands, still not loosening his grip. 

Semi blinks at him. “Wakatoshi. That is, Ushijima. I told him he should’ve sent Shirabu, but it’s not like anyone listens to me.”

Oikawa remembers Shirabu, who’d glared daggers at him before Ushijima had sent him away. Had Shirabu known what Ushijima was about to do? And if so, why did he look so resentful? 

Oikawa is too busy thinking to realize that Semi is moving. In one quick motion, he ducks out of Oikawa’s drip and grabs both of Oikawa wrists, spinning him around until his back hits the tree trunk. Then, Semi is standing over Oikawa, holding him in place. His eye gleam as he studies Oikawa’s face. 

“What— what _are_ you?” Oikawa gasps out. 

Semi shrugs. He has sun-warmed skin and pointed features, high cheekbones and severe eyes. There’s something gently enticing about his face— not like Oikawa’s sculpted beauty or Iwaizumi’s rough charm. Oikawa can’t look away from him, even though Semi’s hardly the type of person he normally finds attractive. 

“I used to be like you,” Semi says simply. “I was human.” 

Oikawa blanches. He hadn’t seen Semi drink anyone’s blood, but he’d had his suspicions. Would it be worse, if Semi was a human who let monsters like Tendou drink from him? Exactly how many of them are there? 

“And now?” Normally, Oikawa is more eloquent than this. He’s never felt so out of his element, so lacking in awareness or knowledge. How can he have any kind of upper hand, here, when he knows nothing? 

Semi grins, a fierce and feral expression. His eyes light up as his lips pull away from his teeth, revealing pointed fangs. “And now I’m not.” 

Oikawa shudders. Semi is still holding him by the wrists, and where their skin touches Oikawa feels too warm, like he’s about to burn. It isn’t the same jolt of pain he’d gotten from Ushijima, but it’s a similar, muted version of the sensation. He can’t tear his eyes away from Semi’s fangs, wondering if he’s about to have his own throat bitten open.

But then Semi sighs and pulls away from him, relinquishing his grip on Oikawa. He crosses his arms over his chest and manages to look down on Oikawa, even though they’re of a height. 

“Are you ready to come home, now?” Semi asks, voice even. 

A laugh gurgles out of Oikawa’s throat. “What are you talking about? I am home.”

Semi sighs, like he expected that response. “You won’t think so for long.” He lets his arms drop, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants. He’s wearing a long, white sleeveless tunic, but there’s maroon embroidering along its hem— interlocking feathers. He doesn’t make any moves towards Oikawa.

“If you want me to go somewhere with you, couldn’t you force me?” He’d felt Semi’s strength, and is under no delusions about who’d win in a fight between them. Especially when Oikawa keeps getting distracted by the flickering lights in Semi’s eyes. 

Semi arches an eyebrow at him. “No. That’s not my job.” 

Oikawa remembers that Ushijima had sent Semi here. He tries to imagine Ushijima invading the safety of Aoba Johsai, and is struck by the image of scattered bodies, stained red with blood. There are dozens of them, wearing Aoba Johsai’s uniforms. And there, at Oikawa’s feet, is— Iwaizumi, with a gash directly across his throat, gazing upwards with unseeing eyes.

Oikawa hisses and falls to his knees, clutching at his head. 

Semi crouches down beside him, his gaze keen. “Already?” he asks, intrigued. “I was thinking you looked too good, considering you haven’t fed in nearly a week. But maybe I was wrong— you don’t look starved, yet.” 

“What,” Oikawa hisses, trying to regain his composure, “Are you talking about?” 

Still crouched, Semi rocks back on his heels. “Just what I said. Whose blood did you drink? That’s going to be important, later. We tend to develop tastes for our firsts, and more of a connection than that, besides.” 

Oikawa tries to arrange those words into something with meaning. When he does, he looks up at Semi in horror. “I’m not— I haven’t drunken anyone’s blood! And I’m not going to!” 

Semi tilts his head, raising a brow again. He looks too smug, too unaffected. Oikawa hates him.

“This is why you shouldn’t have run,” he says. “It’s only going to make the adjustment harder. But we all saw how badly you were wounded. There was no way a human could come back from that. So there were two choices— adapt, or die.” 

Oikawa doesn’t remember making a choice. 

“Look— Oikawa, right? No matter what you are, now, would you rather be dead?” 

_No matter what you are, now_. What does that mean? What is he? His wounds are nearly healed, and his skin is pale and colorless. He hasn’t felt the need to eat in days. In the right light, his eyes shine red. 

“I don’t know,” Oikawa says. He can’t imagine being dead, but he also can’t imagine not being human. Being— a monster, something he’s been raised to kill. A threat to all he holds dear. 

Semi sighs, again. “It took me a long time to figure it out, too. But eventually, I forgave the one who made me this way.” 

Oikawa looks up, and sees no insincerity in Semi— only a quiet kind of resignation. Is he happy, being a monster? 

“What’s going to happen to me,” Oikawa asks quietly, words mumbled. 

Semi closes his eyes for the briefest moment. “You’ll change, more than you have already. The light sensitivity will kick in, eventually. And you’ll need to feed regularly. Most of us feed exclusively from our sires, in the beginning.” 

“Sire?” Oikawa asks, his gut clenching.

“The one who made you,” Semi explains. “Our kind have two great bonds— the connection to the blood that made us, and the connection to the first blood we taste, after.” 

Semi is implying that Oikawa will have to drink Ushijima’s blood. Abruptly, Oikawa turns to one side and retches. His stomach turns over and over, but all that he coughs up is clear liquid and spit. But even that is tinged slightly red with blood, and Oikawa’s throat aches as though it’s been cut. 

Semi offers him no pity. “I knew it,” he says. “You have tasted new blood.” 

Oikawa has no idea what Semi is talking about. He clutches at his stomach, waiting for the nausea to subside. “I don’t want this,” he tells Semi.

Semi shrugs. “There’s no transforming back,” he says. “Humanity, once lost, cannot be regained.”

“I’ll kill myself,” Oikawa growls, baring his teeth.

“You can try,” Semi says. “It won’t work.” His voice carries the weight of experience. 

“I can’t— I’m a _hunter_ —I can’t live like this!” 

Semi closes his eyes for a moment, again, and Oikawa can almost imagine that he’s trying to swallow down some emotion he refuses to show. 

“Listen. Come back to the manor, with me. Wakatoshi will explain things properly, and we’ll get you a meal. It’s hard, now, but you will adapt. You wouldn’t have changed, in the first place, if you weren’t able to do that.”

Oikawa snarls, lunging at Semi and gripping one hand tightly around his throat. Semi gasps for breath, but Oikawa squeezes on his neck, feeling the satisfying jump of Semi’s pulse against his grip. 

“Tell me how to fix this,” he says. 

Semi reaches up and pulls at Oikawa’s hand, trying to dislodge him. “I can’t,” he says, voice hissing out. “There’s no way to.” 

“I’ll kill you,” Oikawa says, not letting go.

Semi smiles wanly. “It’s not me you want to kill. But if you’re feeling bloodlust, already, I’d go back and feed again. It’ll only get worse.” He brings the flat of his hand down against Oikawa’s, breaking his grip. Pulling away from him, Semi straightens up and rubs at his throat. “When you change your mind, come to the woods. The wraiths won’t bother you, and we’ll find you.” 

“I’m not going to change my mind,” Oikawa tells him. 

Semi doesn’t seem to believe him. “You will,” he says. “Unless you don’t mind putting this entire place in danger?” He doesn’t wait for an answer to the question. Instead, Semi quickly scales the tree and uses it to propel himself over to the wall of the north tower, hanging on casually. In the time in take Oikawa to blink, Semi hoists himself over the castle wall and is gone. 

—

Oikawa wants to retreat to his room, to figure this out. But evening training is set to start soon, and if he shirks his duties he’ll never be reinstated as a hunter. And anyway, what can he do? Semi and Ushijima could offer him more information, but that would mean going to them. And who knows if they’d let him go a second time? 

Agitation still itches under his skin as he dresses for evening practice. When Oikawa pulls his shirt over his head, his entire body feels hot, skin flushed. But this is something he can’t avoid, so he tries to swallow down his discomfort. 

Evening training is much more crowded than the sessions that are held for individual classes. He sees his own pupils with their blue sashes, but also flashes of aquamarine as more senior students log their own training hours. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kyoutani lunging towards Iwaizumi, silver knuckles adorning each of his hands. Iwaizumi is unarmed, but he catches Kyoutani around the waist and forces him back. Kyoutani lands in a heap on the ground, grunting. 

“Footwork,” Iwaizumi says sternly. “Now— again.” He braces himself as Kyoutani gets to his feet and prepares to charge again. It’s the first time Oikawa has seen him in training clothes since he woke up, and there’s a new white bandage wrapped around Iwaizumi’s forearm. Oikawa wonders when he was injured, why he didn’t tell Oikawa about it. Then he remembers how he treated Iwaizumi this morning, and thinks he doesn’t deserve to know. 

Beside them, delicately perched on a wooden practice dummy used for solo combat practice, Yahaba is watching with his chin propped against his hand. He catches Oikawa’s eye and waves. 

“Nice to see you out of the infirmary,” Yahaba calls, without any unkindness or pity. Yahaba may be acting as strategist for Oikawa’s squad, but Oikawa knows not to perceive him as a threat.

So he waves back, winks at Yahaba before he heads over to where the younger students are gathered. There are a dozen of them, including Kindaichi, Kunimi and Kageyama. 

Oikawa could run a low-level practice like this with his eyes closed, so it’s easy to fall into routine, calling out instructions and watching the students moving to obey. And this time, although Kageyama catches his gaze more than once, Oikawa is far more drawn to the far corner of the room where Kyoutani and Iwaizumi are practicing. He knows that Iwaizumi wants to see Kyoutani succeed and graduate. But why did he arrange to train with him now? Is he keeping an eye on Oikawa, still? 

Probably, a small voice replies. Iwaizumi has always been watchful over him, and it’s only gotten worse over recent years. Most of the time, Oikawa welcomes the attention. He likes it when Iwaizumi focuses on him, likes that they fit together like puzzle pieces and complement each other. But Oikawa is now left with a heavy feeling of guilt— he doesn’t regret not telling Iwaizumi he was going into the woods, because if he had Iwaizumi might have ended up in the same situation that Oikawa now finds himself in. But he does regret keeping the details from Iwaizumi, and not telling him the truth of what’s happening now. 

Oikawa’s gaze lingers on Iwaizumi as he scuffles with Kyoutani— on the contours of his muscles, the gleam of sweat on his brow, the flush rising to his cheeks. The veins stand out in his arms as he catches another blow from Kyoutani, their hands locked together as they each try to force the other back. Iwaizumi is strong, and alive, and reliable. His heart beat is a steady tempo, a soldier’s march that never wavers. Oikawa can hear it in his ears, can smell Iwaizumi’s blood. 

“Oikawa-san?” 

Oikawa shakes his head to clear it, willing the redness to fade from his vision. When he can see clearly again, Kageyama and the others are standing in front of him. 

“It’s time to clean up, Oikawa-san,” Kindaichi says helpfully, from beside Kageyama. 

“Right,” Oikawa says, tiredly. He recovers quickly, clapping his hands together and instructing his students to put away their equipment. They scurry to obey, and it’s only Kunimi who lingers, eyes narrowed as he studies Oikawa carefully. He’s always been perceptive, which will be a great asset when he becomes a hunter. At the moment, though, Oikawa wishes that scrutiny was not turned on him. 

Eventually, the gym empties out. Kyoutani, Yahaba, and Iwaizumi have hit the showers, and Oikawa is left alone in the gym. He takes deep, steadying breaths, trying to reconcile everything that’s happened today. But the more he thinks on it, the more he realizes that he can’t keep going through the motions of his ordinary life. Whatever has happened to him, whatever he is now, he doesn’t belong here anymore.

The thought hits him like a heavy stone thrown into a river, causing ripples that wrack him. How could he even think that? Sure, he’s seeing red everywhere, and the flush of blood seems more appetizing than food. But he’s not— he’s not like Ushijima, or Semi, or the others. He’s human. He’s a hunter. It’s his job to keep people safe from the monsters that would seek to hurt them. He’s not one of the people who hurts. 

“Oikawa-san?” 

Again, _again_ , Kageyama’s voice calls him back to reality. He’s standing there, still in his practice clothes, looking up at Oikawa almost hopefully.

“Please teach me,” he says, bowing at the waist.

“What do you think I just spent the past two hours doing, Tobio-chan?” Oikawa asks tiredly. 

“No, _really_ teach me,” Kageyama insists. “I want to be able to direct a squad like you do. I want to be that good.” 

Oikawa really doesn’t have the patience for this. Under normal circumstances, he might find Kageyama’s request flattering. But Oikawa knows he isn’t the best fighter at the school, or the best strategist amongst the hunters’ larger ranks. So it’s insulting, really, that someone as talented as Kageyama wants to leech what he can off of Oikawa before moving on to greater achievements. Because that’s what’s going to happen, isn’t it? Kageyama is surely destined to be an amazing hunter, and Oikawa— Oikawa has no idea what his own future holds, now. 

“Please,” Kageyama says again, face still pointed towards the ground, arms flat and stiff at his sides. 

“What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?” Oikawa asks roughly. He’s tired, and he needs to get out of here. Maybe he will go to the woods, and demand better explanations of Semi and Ushijima. Or maybe he’ll just hide in his room for a few days, consequences be damned. He cannot deal with this, right now. 

“I want to learn—”

Kageyama never gets the sentence out. Oikawa snarls, stepping forward and gripping Kageyama by the shoulders. They tumbled to the ground, Kageyama landing flat on his back, Oikawa crouched over him. Kageyama looks up and fear dances in his stormy blue eyes, the first time Oikawa has seen any kind of vulnerability in them. Kageyama’s pulse jumps in his throat. 

That’s all it takes. In one moment, Oikawa thinks that he needs to get up and apologize. In the next, he’s holding Kageyama down and running his tongue along his neck, feeling the flow of Kageyama’s blood just beneath his skin. It’s so close, he can almost taste it. He wants to. 

Pain sparks in his mouth, his teeth suddenly sharper and longer. But that gives him the chance to press them against Kageyama’s neck, to feel the skin give way, to taste the first drops of blood that land on his tongue. It’s more delicious, more enticing, than anything he’s ever tasted before. He can’t describe it— sweet, salty, rich— but he laps it up regardless, biting down harder to deepen the wound, deaf to Kageyama’s cry of pain. He can’t stop. 

Kageyama seizes beneath him, his entire body going taut. One hand comes up to push at Oikawa’s chest, but the grip is weak and ineffectual. Oikawa keeps drinking, pressing Kageyama down against the cool tatami mats that carpet the gym. 

And then, his vision shifts. He closes his eyes and sees visions dancing before him— a wraith, sucking at the neck of a tall woman with dark hair and blue eyes; the hand of a child, clutching at a man’s jacket— the dark jacket of an official hunter, rank stripes lining the sleeves; a man’s voice saying “Not now, Tobio”; a boy sitting alone at one corner of a classroom, unable to focus on the words written in the books before him; the satisfying dance of combat practice, exacting movements and precise strikes of a weapon. These are memories, Oikawa realizes. Kageyama’s memories. 

Then, there’s a strong grip around his shoulders, and someone is tugging him up and away from Kageyama. Oikawa thrashes against his captor, hissing even as he tries to stop the blood from spilling out of his mouth, lapping it up with his tongue. 

“Oikawa,” a voice says behind him, strong arms still holding him tightly, “what the _hell_ is going on?” 

It’s Iwaizumi, because of course it is. As Oikawa tries to shake the fever, the madness that’s overtaken him, Yahaba and Kyoutani dash towards Kageyama, helping him sit up. Two small wounds, like a snake’s bite, stand out starkly against his neck, blood still spilling from them. Despite how small the wounds, Kageyama is pale and shaken, his eyes rolling back as he struggles to maintain consciousness. 

“Get him to the infirmary, now,” Iwaizumi orders, struggling to maintain his hold on Oikawa.

“What about—” Yahaba starts to ask.

“ _Now_!” Iwaizumi roars, and the other two don’t ask any more questions. They balance Kageyama between them, and hurry from the gym. 

The moment they’re gone, Oikawa goes limp in Iwaizumi’s grasp. There’s no point in struggling, when the blood is no longer there for him to drink. And yet, he can’t stop licking at his lips, can’t stop tasting salt and iron on his tongue. 

“What… what did you do?” Iwaizumi asks, struggling to keep his voice steady. “What is going on?” 

Iwaizumi is still pressed against his back, his arms pinning Oikawa’s down. He’s too close. Oikawa can feel his heartbeat, no longer a steady beat but an erratic thumping, like a spooked horse’s gallop. Oikawa looks down and sees the veins standing out in Iwaizumi’s arms. Slowly, he licks Kageyama’s blood off of his teeth.

He tugs himself away from Iwaizumi, and because he’d stopped struggling for so long Iwaizumi lets him. Oikawa turns slowly around, lifting his gaze to look at the face of his best friend.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says, voice rough and pained. “Your _eyes_ …” 

He looks small, in that moment. His eyes are wide, glassy and green. His lips are parted into a soft O shape. He’s looking at Oikawa searchingly, but the emotions that Oikawa usually sees directed at him from Iwaizumi—frustration, affection, care, admiration—are all gone. Instead, Iwaizumi is frightened, and confused. There’s no understanding or recognition in his eyes, but how could there be? 

“I’m sorry,” Oikawa says simply. Before Iwaizumi can respond, Oikawa steps forward and frames Iwaizumi’s face in his hands. For a moment, he cradles Iwaizumi’s face gently, guiding his head back. But as soon as Iwaizumi’s throat is bared to him, Oikawa lowers his face towards it, teeth pressing against the soft skin. “I’m sorry,” he says again, before the taste of Iwaizumi’s blood fills his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as ever, your thoughts and comments are super important to me! you can also reblog/retweet the fic on tumblr/twitter if you feel so inclined! 
> 
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